


But You Never Go Away

by avintagekiss24



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Compound, Avengers Tower, Bathroom Sex, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sex, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28350636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avintagekiss24/pseuds/avintagekiss24
Summary: Guilt has kept your shoulders slumped, head hanging, heart heavy for all of these months. You hated him that night— cursed him, wanted him dead if you were being perfectly honest. Swore to every God you knew, you’d never want anything to do with James Buchanan Barnes ever again. Pictures and trinkets were thrown in the trash. The little house plant the two of you got together was put out on the balcony to shrivel up and die. Bleach ended up on that one sweatshirt he left behind— the one you would wrap yourself up in on nights you missed him, really missed him.All the while, he was holed up in some dingy, cold, damp warehouse— hearing the ten worst words in the English language.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 98





	But You Never Go Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my fic [Listen Before I Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231273). Took me a while, but Christmas has me feeling all soft. This is definitely a mash up of the Captain America: The Winter Soldier and Captain America: Civil War movies, as I took some dialogue and some scenes from both. Also... Vision just doesn't exist in my mind. He will forever be Jarvis :)
> 
> As always, written with a black!reader in mind. You can find me on tumblr @ avintagekiss24
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone!

It’s been a year. It’s coming up on Christmas again. New York is covered in snow and ice. Christmas lights and decorated wreaths hang from every light post and balcony on every building you pass. Ice skaters pack the rink at Rockefeller Center, underneath the seventy-five foot Norway Spruce as sounds of Andy Williams, Frank Sinatra, and Chuck Berry fill the square. 

It’s been a year since Bucky’s been gone. 

Guilt has kept your shoulders slumped, head hanging, heart heavy for all of these months. You hated him that night— cursed him, wanted him dead if you were being perfectly honest. Swore to every God you knew, you’d never want anything to do with James Buchanan Barnes ever again. Pictures and trinkets were thrown in the trash. The little house plant the two of you got together was put out on the balcony to shrivel up and die. Bleach ended up on that one sweatshirt he left behind— the one you would wrap yourself up in on nights you missed him, _really_ missed him.

All the while, he was holed up in some dingy, cold, damp warehouse— hearing the ten worst words in the English language.

Steve and Sam try their best to keep you from blaming yourself, and you _shouldn’t_ , you know that. It’s not your fault, but it’s just the _thought_. The thought of you _hating_ him while he was being tortured— when he needed saving— that’s… that’s what makes it hard to keep food down. 

Time is funny. It sticks you in one spot and then it twists and turns, blends together— blurs. One day feels like a week, makes you feel like it’ll never end. The nights… goodness, the _nights_. But in fact, it’s moving, all the time— that’s why it’s funny. Tick, tick, tick— just ticking away while you wallow. You lose a day, and then two, and then three, and then suddenly, it’s been a month; and then six. And then, before you know it, It’s been twelve months since Bucky’s been gone and you have nothing to show for the time lost. Nothing. 

Time is funny that way. 

Steve thought it was best if you stayed with either Peter and MJ, or better yet, him and Sam— _even better_ , with Tony and Pepper in the tower— so they could keep you safe. Because, of course, Zemo would use you against Bucky, use you to get to the rest of the team. So you listened. You (and your little plant that you rescued from the cold) moved in with Tony and Pepper, Sam and Steve moving in right along with you. 

You chose to stay in Bucky’s old room. 

Tony kept all of their rooms intact, just the way they— Steve, Sam, Peter, Wanda, Natasha, Clint, Bruce— left them. Tony’s sentimental that way. He plays it off well, his usual sarcastic, nonchalant but yet somehow arrogantly flippant attitude winning the day but deep down, he’s a misty-eyed, nostalgic bastard who views each and every one of them as some sort of extension of him— children, almost. He loves them all like they were his own.

Especially Bucky, because, well, they’ve both had it pretty fucking rough. It’s all just water under the bridge now.

So, he kept Bucky’s old room just the same, right down to the half smoked box of cigarettes Bucky stashed underneath his mattress, and the second _full_ box of cigarettes hidden deep in the closet just in case you found the cigarettes underneath the mattress. He quit smoking after all. 

The bed smells like him. Smells so much like him that you don’t get out of it for days on end at first. Reminds you too much of the first time you spent the night with him in this bed. When you do manage to pull yourself from the black silk sheets, you find yourself sniffing the old bottle of cologne Bucky forgot about in the bathroom. It sends you right back to the night the two of you first met— he was drowned in the stuff— but it was nice. Warm. Kinda woody— outdoorsy. 

You’re alone most days, except for MJ who now, after five or six months of Peter badgering her, lives in the tower too, but even she has school to preoccupy her. Pepper runs the multimillion dollar Stark Industries, and once she’s done with that for the day, she has a precocious, brown eyed, three year old to care for. The rest of them, Natasha, Sam, Steve, Peter, Clint, Tony, Bruce, T’Challa, Okoye, are fanned out all over the globe, tracking Bucky and Zemo. The last you heard, Sam and Steve were in Japan, you’re not sure exactly where, they can’t give you those kinds of details.

Scott Lang tries his hardest to make you laugh— he succeeds sometimes. You feel bad for him because you know he drew the short end of the stick having to stay behind with you. He’s learned how to roll sushi because _you_ like to roll sushi, and being in the kitchen together is a way for the two of you to get to know each other a little better. He sits and watches The Golden Girls and Blackish with you on Hulu (Blanche and Jack are his favorites respectively).

It’s the week before Christmas and in a stunning surprise, everybody just comes home. The rumble of the Quinjet vibrated through the line of trees and was landing in the snow covered front yard as you and Scott watched from the living room. You were off your duff and running towards Steve and Sam as soon as the cargo door opened and just their boots were visible as they started to deplane. Peter surprised MJ at school, hanging upside down outside of the window of her art class. 

Everyone decides to order out for dinner. Indian for Tony and Bruce, Chinese for Peter, MJ, and Natasha, Cheeseburgers and fries for Sam and Steve because if either one of them see’s a noodle or a piece of rice again, it’ll be too soon. Scott talks T’Challa and Clint into Mexican, and you just eat a little bit of everything. It’s the first time in a long time that you feel _good_. You’re glad they’re home safe; and just in time for Christmas. 

That all changes, of course. Within the blink of an eye. 

But that’s just life with the Avengers.

You all went to bed after dinner, but then, there’s heavy, rushed footsteps past your door. Voices— loud, frenzied— that make you sit straight up in the darkness. You’re blinking, breathing hard, head snapping towards the door as you try and get your bearings. There’s a TV on, the sound muffled, and then Jarvis, reading off latitudes and longitudes, stats and probabilities; the _whoosh_ of Sam’s wings. 

Your feet are carrying you down the hallway, quick steps, almost skips as you cross your arms over your chest— a protection mechanism, “What’s going—?”

The momentum pushing you forward dries up within an instant. As soon as you turn into the common room, your feet come to a halt, eyes go large, mouth drops open as the wall sized television plays out a gruesome scene before you. 

The Winter Soldier. The video is black and white, grainy. The original Sokovian translation, followed by Russian, scrawls across the bottom of the screen as CNN reports the breaking news. You don’t hear the words, you just… stare, in disbelief as Soldat stalks down a long hallway, M4A1 (if Bucky were here, he’d be proud of you for knowing that… he always accused you of zoning out when he was trying to teach you how to defend yourself) in hand.

His hair is long again. Stringy and tangled as it falls in his face, covering his eyes. A black mask covers three fourths of his face, a black, strappy, leather vest over his chest, black cargo pants, black boots. A red star painted on his metal arm. 

Water wells in your eyes as quick bursts of light flash across the screen, small billows of smoke emanating from the barrel of the gun as he fires at God knows what— or who. The video freezes, then zooms in on his face, his eyes mainly and you gasp, having to literally cover your mouth with your hand to muffle the sob that chokes up in your throat. 

There’s nothing there. No life, no exuberance, no meaning behind them. They’re just… empty. Focused. Terrifying. 

Steve tries to usher you away once they realize you’re standing there, wraps you up in his arms and tries to push you back down the hallway but you don’t budge. You slap his hands away and move closer, further into the room, everyone’s eyes on you as the tears start to fall. 

“This was just a few days ago,” the anchor says as they toss up an old photo of Bucky, one from the thirties, “And again, these are side by side pictures of James Buchanan Barnes, or, as we’ve come to know him, The Winter Soldier, one of the deadliest assassins this world has ever seen. With over...”

“Come on, let me take you back to your room, huh?” Steve’s voice breaks a little as he drowns out the anchor while they continue to list out The Winter Soldiers accomplishments. 

You can’t stop staring and blinking, pushing more emotion down your face, the sound of them splatting against the marble floor deafening. But you can’t stop staring. 1930’s Bucky reminds you of _your_ Bucky. Sweet, gentle, a hint of that boyish charm and mischievous snark bubbling just beyond that smile. It’s a far cry from the Bucky that’s been unleashed on the world for the past year. You don’t want him to be remembered like this. 

“Sweetheart,” Sam’s voice is smooth, gentle, as he takes hold of your elbow, Steve still holding your hips, “Let us take you back to your room. You shouldn’t be—”

Screams that are undoubtedly yours fill the room as an explosion makes the ground rattle. There’s a flash of yellow and red, another thunderous boom, followed by quick pops as you fall to your knees. Time starts to blur again. Slows down but speeds up all at the same time. You slam your hands over your ears as Steve covers you with his shield, glass breaking all around, smoke stinging your eyes and throat. 

If Steve wasn’t hanging on to you, the wind cutting off of Sam’s wings would have sent you right into the opposite wall; they’re so powerful. The orange, dense light emanating from Tony’s repulsors blinds you as he hovers quickly, shouting instructions back to Jarvis and Steve before he takes off after Sam, “Get her upstairs with Pepper and Morgan! Lock down the upper floors, Jarvis. Nobody comes in or out without my override!”

Clint’s arrows cut through the air like knives through butter. The sharp _shing_ of T’Challa’s nails as they swipe, the ear-splitting pops of Natasha returning gunfire overload your senses as Steve stands, whipping his shield in the direction of the windows. You’re screaming, but you can’t hear yourself. It all plays out like a movie; slow motion, all the sound suddenly drowned out. Your eyes can’t open more than slits, just enough to make out random flashes of light, the glint off of Steve’s shield as it flies, outlines of random people.

You’re hoisted up after several seconds more and thrown over Steve’s shoulder, your body bouncing as he jets down the hallway, getting you out of harm's way. He gets you upstairs to Pepper and Morgan, barricaded in a two story panic room and makes you promise to stay put until they return. 

Then he’s gone. 

Within the blink of an eye. 

Pepper turns the news on, sets Morgan up with her tablet and headphones so she doesn’t have to see her father and aunts and uncles fighting a gang of heavily armed, masked men. 

It’s hours before the news starts reporting that it’s Hydra that’s descended upon the city— that attacked the tower. When the sun comes up, they start recognizing and broadcasting the faces of Brock Rumlow, Karl Krous, Laura Brown and others. The three of you watch in horror as the images of buildings crumbling, explosions detonating; Bruce throwing cars around like they’re toys. News reporters cower behind cars, shouting the unfolding events into their mics, camera men braving the falling bricks and pieces of streetlamps to get that one perfect shot. 

It’s 10:03am when they show The Winter Soldier for the first time. Your heart sinks right to your feet, chin trembles, eyes flutter, trying to push away the tears that spring to them. He stalks down the middle of the street, the camera struggling to focus in on him— blurring then focusing, then blurring again. He fires a grenade from the launcher in his hands, a puff of white smoke following the small bomb as fire blooms from the parked vehicle it just hit. 

The air whips his hair around his face as he discards the weapon, only to pull a silver handgun from the holster on his hip, firing off several rounds towards Peter as he swings into the frame. 

You can’t take your eyes off of him— you even inch up closer to the television, reach out to _touch_ it. MJ and Pepper wrap around you, whispering words you can’t really hear as they try and tear you away, but just like before, you don’t move. Your brain just can’t reconcile what you’re seeing versus what you _know_ about James Buchanan Barnes. 

He’s put on weight. The last time you saw him he was… slimmer— muscles still rippled, strength still incredible, just slimmer. You liked him that way, slim. The new arm they fitted him with, back to a shiny silver, even looks bigger— bulkier. Gone are the gentle touches of his fingers as they grazed up and down your hip on lazy Sunday mornings. Gone are the soft crinkles at the sides of his eyes as he laughs at some stupid, cheesy comedy on those late Friday nights. 

It’s all been replaced by a machine. Hard, razor focused eyes, hands deadly as they land heavy, powerful punches, right in the middle of Steve’s chest, throwing him back into an unaccompanied van. The sunlight glints off of the blade of the knife he pulls as he and Steve square up in the middle of the street, both men more proficient in hand to hand combat. 

Your stomach churns. The sound of your beating heart and rushing blood fills your ears as you stare back at the images of a man you used to know. Something just snaps— just clicks inside of you. 

You’re running, Pepper and MJ screaming as your feet pound against the floor. Override code be damned— a drunk Sam is a _talkative_ Sam. Jarvis tries to talk some sense into you as you tear into your room, throwing on random articles of clothing, “The odds of you getting hurt are over seventy percent. I have no choice but to alert Mr. Stark that you’re leaving.”

“If you can’t stop me, neither can he.” You spit, tossing an oversized hoodie over your head before slamming your feet into your Ugg boots. You turn on your heel and run back out of the room, stomping over broken glass and shards of twisted metal, “Open the garage.”

“I’m speaking to Mr. Stark right now, he’s urging me to—”

“Open the garage, Jarvis!”

“Mr. Stark is aware you’re trying to leave. I’m built into all of Mr. Stark’s vehicles, he’s given me the ok to shut them down.”

“Gerald the Alpaca has eaten all the gojis.”

A low, deep hum of electricity spreads through the facility, the sounds of doors and windows unlocking bounces off the walls. The utterance sends Jarvis and the automatic system laced through the tower, reboot— takes exactly forty five seconds for it all to come back online. Just enough time for you to jump into the burnt orange Audi R8 and spout off Pepper’s mother’s sister’s ex-husbands birthday, disabling Jarvis from the vehicle entirely just as he comes back online.

A drunk Sam is a _very_ talkative Sam— and you have a head for random numbers.

The streets in the country are bare. The rear-wheel drive, racing-tuned performance machine eating up mile after mile of asphalt within minutes. You hit traffic once you close in on the city, police officers trying to turn vehicles away from the bridge, but you coast right by them, paying them no mind as you weave in and out and between rows of cars. 

When you come to an absolute stand still, just blocks away from where you want to be, you abandon the car entirely, back on your feet, running through the rubble. Your lungs and legs burn as you haul ass through the city, ducking and dodging running people and falling debris, the influx of cold air sending a shock to your organs from the inside out. 

Gunshots start to ring out again, closer and louder now— you’re close. A looming shadow sweeps over you, sending your eyes to the sky; Sam flying overhead before scissor kicking a Hydra agent right off the roof of a building. Turning the corner, you skid to a stop, nearly eating the asphalt as Soldat punches Steve square in his chest, blowing him back into another car, the windows shattering with the force. 

Steve struggles to stand, blood trickling down his chin from his split bottom lip. His left eye nearly swollen shut, already purple and blue. Soldat grabs the vibranium shield, ripping it from the twisted metal of the car that it’s wedged in. He pulls the small submachine gun that’s strapped in the middle of his back over his shoulder, points it straight at Steve— 

“Bucky!”

The shrill sound of your voice cuts through the air, slapping against the brick buildings and the still intact glass windows. Soldat turns his head, ice blue eyes peering through dark strands of hair that blow gently with a cold gust of wind. He turns fully, facing you, eyes squinting as they stare back into your wide, watery ones. 

Frozen in place, mouth hanging— gasping for air, your mind just races. Memories, quick fragments of your life together, flash before your eyes as your breath becomes visible; white puffs, like smoke, blurring him in the distance, adding to the chaos around him. A car burns in the background, thick, black smoke rising in the air. Bodies— hydra agents, Steve— litter the ground. Pops from gunfire, Natasha maybe, from the next street over, still fill the air, random grunts and heavy thuds from fists and feet slamming into flesh, bodies hitting the ground as the rest of the team continues to fight. 

Time starts to stand still, slowing down again for just you and Soldat as the world collapses around the two of you. Soldat cocks his head slowly, his eyes drop down your body— the wheels turning in his head. 

You take a step, and then another, and another, your eyes locked with his, “Bucky,”

He pulls the pistol strapped around his thigh in one smooth, quick motion— angrily pulling back on the slide as he lifts it, “Who the hell is Bucky?”

You keep walking, hand outstretched for him. Fear strikes you but you just don’t stop moving— you can’t. You won’t. 

Bucky’s eyes were always the most expressive part of him. They always gave him away, no matter the words that were coming out of his mouth. That stays the same with Soldat. Even with a gun in his hand, target locked, his eyes _gently_ waver, _gently_ start to bounce back and forth; _gently_ fall to the ground before snapping back towards you. 

You knock his hand away when you’re close enough— grab his mask covered face with your hand, cupping his chin in the little nook between your thumb and index finger. Fingers reach and brush the soft, brown hair out off his forehead before your palm flattens against the side of his face. There’s a blush of pink spread across his forehead and just underneath his eyes, from the cold. His eyes a little red and watery from the smoke and fire.

“I know who you are,” you whisper, still holding his face, sight blurry from the rush of water to them, words thick with emotion, “I know who you are, Bucky.”

You yelp when he pushes you hard, knocking you back a few steps, stumbling over pieces of building and glass. Steve grunts, standing slow, having to use the car behind him for leverage to get on his feet. His clothes are ripped and stained with blood, the sharp smell of copper in the air, “You— you know us, Buck.”

Soldat turns quick, leveling another brutal blow with his gloved metal hand to Steve’s face, the sound of the bones crunching filling the space. He grabs Steve by the shirt, balls it in his hand as he rears back again, but you catch his arm, using every ounce of strength you have to pull it back. 

He whips around again, tossing Steve back like a ragdoll. You grab his face, both hands encasing him, as hot tears slip down your cheeks. One hand falls, falls right down to his wide chest, settles on the thick leather covering his torso— over his heart. 

Before you know what you’re doing— before you _realize_ even, you lean in and kiss him. Right where his mouth would be behind the thick, black mask covering most of his face. You kiss him again— quick— this time on his cheek, and again on the other. You still hold his face. Grab his chin, cup it— _again_. 

Time is strange, plays with your senses. Twists and turns, blurs and clears, speeds up, slows down— stops all together. That’s what it feels like right in this moment. Like the two of you are stuck just outside of time itself. It’s moving for everyone except for you.

When you pull back, Soldat’s eyes are wide, full of uncertainty as they move around your face, “I know who you are,” you whisper again, “I know who Bucky is.”

_I love Bucky._

_I love you._

_Say it._

Wild eyes bounce back and forth between yours, his chest rising and falling harder than before. He drops his head slightly, his eyes searching the pavement as the wind kicks up again, tossing his hair around. Then he’s looking at you, blinking slow, raising his hand. Metal digits hover over your cheek, the tips _just_ brushing over the wet skin, daring to touch— _wanting_ to touch. 

Maybe if he just touches, he’ll be able to remember.

_I know who you are._

_Say it._

_I love you._

_Say it!_

A bullet screams through the air, ripping the invisible bubble the two of you are in to shreds, the world violently crashing in. It collides with Soldat’s flesh arm, a clipped scream bursting from his lips. Arms suddenly wrap around your waist, start dragging you back as Tony lands with a thud right where you were standing— landing a left hook, and then a right, before a swift uppercut, making Soldat stumble backward. 

“Get her out of here!”

You’re screaming now, twisting and turning in the tight arms around your waist, kicking and fighting— reaching out for Bucky, “Don’t hurt him! Tony, please! Tony!”

There’s a flurry of red just over Soldat’s shoulder— Natasha, kicking the heel of her foot into the back of his calf and then his thigh, making him fall to his knees before she jams his flesh arm upward as she forces it behind his back.

A web shoots from Peter’s wrist, slapping against a still standing lamp post, and soon you’re flying, whipping through the cold air as he carries you away— to _safety_. As soon as he sits you on your feet again, you’re punching, slamming your fists and open palms against his chest and face as he struggles to capture your arms. You’re crying; hard and desperate. Scared. 

“They won’t hurt him! I promise, they won’t!” Peter trumpets, finally able to grab your shoulders, squeezing to try and ground you, “We’re trying to get him out of the city before the military closes in. We won’t hurt him, _I swear._ ”

He rips his mask off, lets you see his face; his wide, soft eyes and messy brown hair. Lets you see _Peter Parker_ , not Spider Man— and you fall into his arms. Sob openly, loudly, unable to catch your breath, nose runny. He holds you so tight in that little alley, lets you make a complete mess of his suit, your tears soaking right through to his skin.

“He didn’t even know who I was,” you cry, dragging in choppy breaths, “He looked right at me and he—”

“We’ll fix him,” Peter’s words are rushed, breath warm as you shiver from the cold, “He’ll remember— we’ll fix him, Shuri can. T’Challa’s sure of it.”

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

_I know who you are._

_I know who Bucky is._

_I love you._

\- - - - -

It’s Christmas Eve. You’re trudging through deep snow, Sam’s hand gripping your wrist as he walks in front of you, helping to pull you through it. The sky is dark, but the stars twinkle bright, the snow glimmering underneath it. It’s _cold—_ the air cutting you right through your flesh and muscles, rattling your bones. 

The flight was long. You’re not even sure which part of the world you’re in, but you don’t dare ask. After pestering them all for the past week, demanding they take you to him, screaming, crying— you’d imagine you’re on pretty thin ice with the team. 

A small house comes into view through the trees, a singular point of light shining through the small window in the vast darkness. Smoke billows from the chimney, the roof swallowed under heavy white snow. Your heartbeat quickens. The blood rushing through your veins heats up, spreads the sudden warmth through your body as the snow crunches beneath your feet with each step. 

When you reach the door, Sam pushes you in front of him, glances over his right shoulder, and then his left before he stares out into the nothing surrounding you— just to make sure you weren’t followed. Then he knocks, a distinctive pattern, almost like… morse code? Maybe? You don’t think about it for too long. 

The door pops open, just a sliver, revealing a tuft of blonde hair and one blue eye before it opens wider. Steve pulls you into his chest, hugging tight before he reaches for Sam, kissing his lips quick, “What took you two so long? I was about to come looking for you.”

“Snow storm sidetracked us for a bit,” Sam answers, closing the door with a thud before he starts to pull out of his jacket, “Had to circle around for a bit before I could land the jet.”

Steve tips your head upward, pushing his knuckle into the soft underneath of your chin, “Are you alright?”

A few lingering bruises cover Steve’s face, a fresh cut sliced into his eyebrow. His knuckles are bloody, the skin broken and your mind starts to drift. They must have... _God what if_ — You nod and smile, pushing the negative thoughts away, letting out the breath that you’ve been holding since you boarded the QuinJet with Sam, “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

You’re met with a wide smile. He’s trying not to scare you, “Always.”

They offer you something to eat, but you don’t take it. Stomach too tight, too flippy and nervous to be able to hold anything down. You ask about him, about Bucky. Both Sam and Steve think you should wait to see him, maybe tomorrow— he’s groggy still. Slipping between Bucky and Soldat without a moment’s notice. Sobbing one minute, violent the next. 

“Today was rough,” Steve sighs, leaning back against Sam as he wraps his arms around Steve’s middle, “Shuri got into him pretty good, tapped something deep,” his voice drops low, eyes even lower, “I had to put him down.”

“Oh, honey,” Sam purrs, kissing Steve’s cheek before resting his forehead to Steve’s temple.

You don’t even want to know what that means, _put him down_ , “That’s why Shuri isn’t here?” you ask tentatively. 

Steve nods, “T’Challa and I both thought it’d be best if she stayed away for a few days. We don’t know how he’s gonna react to seeing her once he wakes up. She’s back in Wakanda for now.”

“I want to see him,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek, “Even if he’s out, I just—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. We should at least wait to see where he is in the morning.” Steve shakes his head.

“Steve, please.”

It’s the pleading in your voice, the smallness of it that convinces him. He knows how hard you’ve had it. You follow him down the hall, your arms crossed over your chest, hand rubbing your bicep nervously. Steve pops the door slow, peeks inside before dropping his head, shoulders slumping. 

He glances back at you, “He’s not…” he sighs heavy, “I can’t let you go in there, not with him like this.”

You push past him, bumping your hip against the door to throw it open. 

Soldat is up, eyes trained on you, lips set in a hard line. His metal arm wedged between a cast iron _something—_ you’re not even sure what. A piece of old, rusted machinery drug in from the just as old, just as rusted barn that sits in the back of the property. The side of his face and hair is caked with dried blood. 

The room is stripped bare— no desk, no chair, no bed. Nothing he can break off or use against them if he somehow gets free. The window is boarded up, makeshift metal bars ripped off from only God knows what and drilled into the wall, over thick pieces of wood. There’s just a mattress, a thin twin sized mattress— no sheets, no pillow— thrown on the floor and shoved up against the wall.

Soldat just sits there on the floor, legs drawn up, and stares at you. He lets his eyes drop, then slowly pushes them up your frame, where his dead eyes lock with yours again. It takes your breath away. The emptiness, two pits of _nothing_ staring back at you, literally makes you gasp as your blood runs cold from fear. 

Bucky’s not here.

He lunges suddenly, his long arm swiping out towards you, the metal contraption encasing his arm scraping against the floor from his brute force. You jump, a sharp gasp and influx of air filling your lungs as Steve and Sam push you back behind them, threatening him instantly. There’s a sliver of opening between their bodies, just enough to where you lock eyes with Soldat again as he slams his back into the wall, resting his head against it, letting it lull slightly. Just _staring_.

You turn on your heel and push down the hallway without another word, refusing to let the tears fall, hugging yourself as you move. 

\- - - - -

Sleep doesn’t come easy— doesn’t come at all. You toss and turn, but end up on your side, staring out the window at the full moon. There’s a digital clock in the corner of the room, red numbers slowly ticking the night away. It’s Christmas day. 3:14am. The house is silent except for the random settling of the old house throughout, a gentle snore from Sam floating through the thin walls. 

There’s a shift in the house, a sudden one, making you sit straight up. A deep mumble drifts towards you, and then… crying. Soft. Deep breaths that choke up, a gentle thud against the wall. 

Throwing your feet over the side of the bed, you push out into the hallway, quick steps pulling you towards the sounds. You meet Steve in the hallway just as you round the corner. The two of you blink at each other for a second, but he lets you move closer, watches as you wrap your hand around the doorknob and push your weight against it. 

Steve grabs your shoulder, stopping you just before you enter, “I’ll be right out here, okay? Leave the door cracked, I don’t know how long he’ll stay like this.”

With a quick nod, you peek around the door, blinking slow, lips parting. Bucky’s head is in his hand, shoulders shaking as he cries. A light hum trembles in his throat as he sniffles before he rests his head back on the wall, pushing his chin up towards the ceiling. He forces focused, slow breaths out between his lips and inhales deep through his nose, his eyes closed. 

“Bucky?”

He snaps his head towards you, eyes straining to make out your shape in the dark. Rivets of moonlight slip in the room from between the slats nailed over the window, the soft light illuminating your face as you take a few tentative steps forward. You spot the recognition immediately. Bucky’s face falls, his eyes going all soft as his chest rises harder, faster. 

“Baby? Is that— is that you? Sweetheart?” he reaches out for you, his fingers flexing, “Come here, baby.”

You hesitate, dropping your eyes to your hands, your right thumb pushing nervously into your left palm, “Which Bucky am I talking to?”

He swallows hard, his cheeks wet and red, eyelashes clumped together as he drops his hand, “We have a plant. You used to call it Ariel, after The Little Mermaid… your favorite Disney movie.”

A small smile spreads on your face as you drop your head, “Can’t read that in a museum.”

“Come here, please. Please, baby.”

He reaches for you again. You glance over your shoulder, Steve’s shadow looming over the small crack in the door, hushed voices raising slightly as Sam’s heavy feet move down the hallway. The breath in your lungs goes shallow as you stare at Bucky’s outstretched hand, strange thoughts running through your mind— thoughts you’ve never had about him before last week.

“You’re scared of me.” He laughs a little— sad and hollow as he drops his hand back to his side, “You should be. God, I knew this would happen. Everything Hydra put inside of me is still there. All they gotta do is say the goddamn words.”

“Shuri is trying to help you. She’s, she’s taking a break for a few days, but she’ll figure it out. She’s smart, she can—” 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He asks, cutting off your words, his eyes lifting to lock with yours again, “I didn’t… what did I do?”

You shake your head emphatically, taking another step closer, “You didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

“I pushed you. God,” he whimpers, the fragments coming back to him, “I held a gun to your head.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” you press, harder, firmer, wanting him to believe it.

He closes his eyes again, shaking his head slow, dragging in heavy breaths, “You should go. I can’t trust my own mind. Steve and Sam shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“Bucky—”

He slams his fist on the ground angrily, making you jump. Sam and Steve burst through the door but you throw up your hands, stopping them in their tracks, “It’s okay! We’re okay.”

“Did he try something with you?” Sam asks, his brown eyes shifting quickly between yours and Bucky’s.

“No, we’re fine. I’m okay.” You breathe deep, “Just give us a few minutes, okay?” When they don’t move, you press a little harder, “Please guys.”

Against their better judgement, they both clear out of the room with a few lingering glances— making sure to leave the door cracked, just in case.

-

Bucky draws his legs up again, drapes his flesh arm over his knees, buries his face in his bicep. His head is pounding, throat dry, stomach in knots. He’s embarrassed— ashamed. Confused. Hating himself more than anything. He isn’t worth all of this. All of this effort to _fix_ him, all of this time they’ve spent away from their homes and each other… you should be with MJ. Opening presents, laughing, baking cookies— you shouldn’t be _here_ , with him, none of them should be. 

“No, we’re fine. I’m okay.” You breathe deep, “Just give us a few minutes, okay?” When they don’t move, you press a little harder, “Please guys.”

Bucky slams his eyes closed, face twisting in pain as Sam and Steve’s shuffling feet, the creaking door pierce his brain, nearly splitting it in two. A trembling groan pushes through his lips as he swallows hard, trying to keep the bile down. Scattered images flash before his eyes, but one sticks out longer than the rest. The same one that’s flickered throughout the entire week, regardless of _who_ he is. 

You standing there on that bridge. Eyes red and watery, your hands cupping his cold face. You knew him, he could tell just by the look in your eyes. He didn’t smell an ounce of fear on you— and it shook him. Right down to his bones. That’s all Soldat knows, the smell of blood and fear, yet, there you were, standing there with his face in your hands, trying to coax _Bucky_ out. 

Then you pressed your lips, your warm, trembling lips to his and Soldat could have fainted, right then and there. 

Bucky inhales sharp, snaps his head up when something brushes along his fingers. You’re there again, right in front of him. Down on your knees, head tilted as you encase his large hand in yours, bringing the backs of his fingers to your warm, trembling lips. A breath chokes in his throat as you kiss the bruised, broken, blood stained skin of his knuckles— his fight with Steve earlier in the day. 

His face breaks again as he watches with blurred vision, you pushing his flesh hand over your chin and jaw, along your cheek— nuzzling into the warmth. He tries to pull back, pull his soiled hand away from your pure skin, but you just grip tighter. Press your lips against his palm. A tear falls, slipping down his cheek as he rests his head against the wall, tilting his face towards the ceiling. 

More silent tears follow. 

_Tell her._

You're in his lap within seconds. The sudden weight making him jump, pulling him back into the present, “Don’t, don’t do that. You shouldn’t— please, I don’t want to hurt you.” He chokes out. 

You never listened to him— anyone really. That’s what he likes about you.

He’s consumed by the warmth of you, both physical and emotional. You wrap your arms around his neck, press your face to his. Bucky stills, unable to trust himself— his mind— not wanting to slip back into Soldat, feeling the pull, the tug of war. 

“You were the very last thing in my mind that night,” he’s sobbing now, “The very last thing. I should have told you I was sorry. I should have told you how much—”

_How much I love you._

_Say it._

_Tell her._

“I was on my way to meet you, if I’d left five minutes earlier—”

Those warm, trembling lips of yours are on his, shushing him. It’s been a year since he’s felt those pillowy-soft lips.

They breathe a new life into this old killing machine. 

\- - - - -

_I want you to take that thing off of his arm._

_Are you crazy? He attacked Shuri yesterday— we can’t trust him yet._

The world slowly starts to seep into Bucky’s foggy brain. His eyes flutter as he rolls his head slowly, wincing from a deep throb in his muscles. The sun cuts into the room in small slivers from between the bars and wood affixed over the window. There’s three muffled voices.

_He’s fine! I slept with him all last night, he didn’t hurt me._

_He could be a totally different person when he wakes up today. You saw how quickly he can slip._

_We’re trying to keep you safe— hell, keep us all safe. You saw what he’s capable of._

They’re right— he can’t even trust his brain to know what day it is without a handler having to feed it to him. Because that’s what he is. An obedient machine, non thinking, non rationalizing— just doing as he’s told, when he’s told. He can’t be trusted to not hurt them.

Bucky rolls his head against the wall again, his sore eyes zeroing in on the digital clock hanging on the wall. 11:42am Christmas Day. Blinking slow, he pushes his eyes to the boarded up window and just stares. 

_He needs a bath— food. He’s been in those clothes for a week!_

Their voices start to grow distant as they move deeper in the house, but then— there’s footsteps down the hall. Voices growing louder, closer.

He snaps his head towards the door when it opens. Steve steps into the room, eyes hard, jaw tight, fists balled at his sides— ready for a fight. 

“Steve.”

“What was the girl’s name you took with us to Coney Island?”

Bucky rolls his head, away from the death glare of Steven Grant Rogers— a death glare he knows too damn well. He smiles soft at the memory, “Dolores. I kept calling her Dot. She’s got to be at least a hundred now, huh?”

The sigh of relief Steve expels fills the room, “So are we, pal.”

“Just like that we’re supposed to be cool?” All eyes turn to Sam, you slapping his shoulder and clicking your tongue, “He kicked me off of a building. Excuse me for not being impressed by him remembering some random blonde.”

“She was a red-head.” Bucky answers, blinking slow, “If it makes you feel any better Sam, she hated my guts too.”

Sam scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

You step past the two of them, shooting a look at Sam before you kneel beside him, grabbing his hand, “You up for a bath? A little bit of breakfast maybe?”

Bucky nods, dropping his head as embarrassment flushes through him, “That sounds good.”

With a nod from you, Steve and Sam are at his side, Steve straining, a bright red blushing up his neck and cheeks as he lifts the heavy piece of old machinery off of Bucky’s metal arm. You throw his flesh arm over your shoulder, loop your other around his waist and help him stand, stumbling a little underneath his weight. 

You help him down the hallway, your steps slow as he limps, Steve and Sam looming behind. Bucky’s head spins, the hallway shortening and then elongating, the walls closing in and then widening. His stomach suddenly tightens, his throat seemingly shortening, a quick, hot sweat popping up on his forehead. 

He pulls away, pushing into the bathroom, the door slamming against the wall as he falls to his knees in front of the toilet, retching hard and loud. Throat and nose burning as bile spews from him. A comforting hand sweeps along his shoulder blades, rubbing soft, slow circles onto his back, before pulling his long hair away from his face as he pukes. 

The hand is then gone as the sink comes on, a glass of water hovering in his peripheral as he falls back onto his butt, wiping at his mouth once he’s finished painting the porcelain. 

“Here’s some clothes and a towel,” the irritation in Sam’s voice ever present, “Don’t lock the door and—”

“Keep it cracked, I know.” You answer.

Bucky lifts his eyes as two sets of heavy footsteps move down the hallway. The door shuts with a soft click, the button lock pressing into the door. He blinks at you as you turn and lean against it, shrugging, “You always said I wasn’t so good of a listener, but that’s what—”

“I like about you.” 

_What I love about you._

You smile and his heart leaps, “Can I help you out of those clothes?”

-

Slow and methodical, your hands. Peeling away layer after layer of The Winter Soldier, tossing the ripped clothing, the heavy leather vest, empty gun holsters and knife sheaths to the floor as the hot water runs in the large stand alone tub. You sweep your hand through it, the water, once the bath is drawn, testing the temperature before grabbing Bucky’s right hand, pulling him closer. 

You keep a tight hold as he steps in slowly, hissing as the heat sears his skin— but it’s good, feels good. The tub is small, much too small for his long, wide, built body, but he settles in, the water line pushing right up against the edges of the tub, some sneaking over and splatting on the floor. It’s instantly tinged with red, the dried blood on his skin soaking off. 

“Is it okay if I touch you?” Your voice is tiny, takes up almost no space in the room. 

_Please._

_Please touch me._

Bucky nods, saying nothing as he focuses his eyes on a spot on the wall, inhales deep, exhales slow. 

Those hands feel like heaven, slipping and sliding, pulling the soap along his rough, bruised flesh. He lets his eyes close as you bathe him, still focusing on breathing as you squeeze the washcloth over his flesh shoulder, the water spilling over his chest and down his back. You focus on the jagged, deep scar where flesh meets metal, sweeping over it gently, making his chin quiver.

Bucky keeps his eyes closed as you wash his hair, your nails scratching at his scalp, massaging his head. You comb through his dark, clumped hair with an old comb you found in one of the drawers, taking your time to get out each and every last knot and tangle. 

The bath ends entirely too soon for Bucky, even though a half hour has passed— maybe even more. You turn and move back towards the sink, washing your hands quick. 

“I’ll give you a minute to get dressed, okay? I’ll be right outside the door.”

You gasp when he wraps his arms around your body.

-

Heavy breaths push through your mouth and nose as Bucky pushes his wet chest into your back. You stare at each other through the mirror, his lips parted as he tightens his hold. 

You start to scream, Sam’s name right on the tip of your tongue— but then there’s a gentle kiss, two chapped, but quivering lips at the base of your neck. His metal hand sweeps your micro braids over your shoulder before slipping down your arm, the tips of his fingers brushing along the wool of your sweater. 

There’s another kiss— the loose, overly large sweater pushed down your arm, exposing your shoulder where his lips meet. His metal arm slinks down to your waist, digits skirting across the rim of your jeans, pushing up underneath the soft wool, spreading out on your hot skin. You’re swaying with him, gently, slow, back and forth as he presses kisses along your shoulder, pushes his nose into your hair, inhaling you. 

It takes you back. Right back to your last time together in that hotel room. His metal hand inches up, up, up, traces the cup of your bra before slithering inside of it— fingers toying with your tight nipple. Teeth skim along your shoulder— sink into the crook of your neck, his hot tongue snaking out from behind his lips to lap at the sensitive skin. 

His flesh hand pushes down, down to your jeans, popping the button, pulling on the zipper. Warm skin to warm skin, you jump suddenly as his fingers slide into your panties— through your wet folds. You jut your hips forward, inhale deep as you rest your weight against his back, head falling to his shoulder. 

“You are the strongest memory I have when I’m gone,” Bucky’s voice is low, scratchy from being sore and dry, “You’re always… with me. Even when I couldn’t remember, couldn’t _understand_ why you were there…” his voice trails off as he pushes your jeans down your thighs, letting them pool at your feet, “Every night, every day."

Your sweater is rucked up over your breasts, the supple flesh spilling out over the cups of your bra as his metal fingers push along your clit. He pushes his hips into yours, prompting you to groan when you feel his hard cock pressing into your ass. Pushing your hand along the cool metal of his arm, you thread your fingers into his wet hair, pulling as your hips roll with his. 

It’s been such a long year. Each day a reminder of what was, what could have been, each thought, each memory taking more and more of a toll on your tired body. Soul taxed, torn to pieces, heart made of glass, shattering each and every day he was gone. But now he’s here, touching you, breathing you in, pushing you to the brink— just like your last day together all those months ago. 

It’s all just the same.

You don’t want to waste it. You don’t know how long he’ll be here. 

The sweater covering you is pulled over your head, tossed to the floor. Your denim jeans and silk panties around your ankles are kicked underneath the tub; bra following soon after. Bucky has two handfuls of your breasts, squeezing, lips nipping at your shoulder and neck, the head of his cock dragging along your slit. 

You push back, coaxing him, needing him to fill you up— stuff you full; so you can feel something again. He grabs your hand, forces his thick metal digits between your flesh fingers, the tips digging into your palm; drags his bottom lip between his teeth— and _pushes_. The air is sucked right out of the room, your mouth falling open, squeaking and groaning, huffing as your hot muscles spread for his length, his girth. 

-

Bucky doesn’t stop until you’ve taken every inch, until he’s buried deep in your soft, warm cunt. A low hum trembles in his throat as you envelope him, your body the softest thing he’s felt in a year. Just being inside of you, feeling your heat, your muscles squeezing— clenching down— sends him spiraling. Spiraling down the tunnel of _you_. Needing your approval, your validation. 

Needing to make you happy. 

He starts to move, pulling out slow, all the way, and then delving back in; the squelch, the squish of your taut, wet muscles filling the bathroom. The small tremors that wrack your body, the breathy, impassioned moans that fall from your lips— the murmurs, the begging. _Harder, faster, deeper— please._ It’s overwhelming, all consuming, but so familiar. So welcoming. Normal. 

Metal slips up your back and over your shoulder, squeezing as his flesh hand curves around your hip, gripping tight. Blue eyes focus in on the connection, the way your body stretches to draw him in with each push. The way your skin ripples when you push back, crashing against his hips. He draws you up, your back flush to his chest, his hands curving around your ribcage to cup your full breasts. 

Bucky catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror; blinks, and suddenly he’s not in that small bathroom anymore. You’re not you anymore. It’s cold and damp where he is now. A dirty, thin mattress sits on a small, rusted bed frame shoved in the corner. There’s no windows, just a door with a handler standing on the other side. 

Your long dark braids, brown skin is now short and blonde, fair— she’s not you. Doesn’t sound like you, doesn’t feel like you, that much Soldat knows. But he fucks her all the same; hard, fast, because he was told to. She was provided so that he could _focus—_ he is a man after all. All men have needs that need to be met every now and again. 

His hips falter at the fragmented memory. A deep red starts to flush through his skin, heart hammering in his chest as his eyes lose focus, cloud over. Your talking, but it’s distorted, foggy, somehow off in the distance when you’re right in front of him

_Bucky? What’s wrong?_

_Bucky?_

_Baby?_

-

“Bucky? What’s wrong?” 

You’re breathless, mouth hanging when you realize he’s slipping. You stare at him through the mirror, fear turning your blood ice cold. 

“Bucky?” you whisper, voice wavering, “Baby?”

His arms fall by his sides as he blinks, staring just past you, a single tear streaking down his cheek. His lips are red, hanging open and quivering, his wet hair still drip, drip, dripping. 

_Run. Scream. He’s turning._

But you don’t, run that is. You don’t scream for them. You turn, facing him. You slowly reach for his face, cupping his cheeks in your palms. Thumbs sweep over the stubble, underneath and over his lips, “Stay with me,” you whisper, trying to bring him back, “Stay with me, baby.”

Blue eyes skirt back to yours, red and watery. You push the tears away, let the pads of your fingers absorb the wetness as you push up onto your tiptoes and press a kiss just under his eye, making them flutter. 

“Stay with me, Bucky. Stay with me— stay here. Please.” You place your hands on his chest, feel his racing heartbeat as you close your eyes, focusing on your breath, “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have made you leave. I should have called, I was— I should have.”

He lifts you suddenly, places you on the edge of the sink. Wraps your legs around his waist— presses his forehead to yours. You skim your nails up and down his sides, pushing your heels into the small of his back to nudge him closer, shivering when his cock presses against your clit. 

“Bucky?”

His eyes flutter as he nods, “I’m here. I’m still here.”

There’s a flurry after that, lips, teeth, tongue. On your neck, your chin, your lips as he sinks back into you, hips finding their pace again. The sink, seperating from the wall, thuds against the wall with each of his strokes, your legs squeezing around his sides and hips. You grab his face, bring his lips back to yours, kiss him sweet and slow, your tongue slipping along his bottom lip and into his mouth. 

You can feel his cock throbbing, feel the desperation in him as he quickens. His long metal arm is curled around your waist, squeezing the meat of your side, his grunts low in your ear. The fingers of his flesh hand push between your bodies, toying with your clit, rubbing quick circles and then long strokes, pushing his rough fingers through your folds. 

Hot lips meet your neck, sucking soft and gentle, making you gasp and arch your back. You anchor your head against the medicine cabinet, your moans growing loud, straining and choking in your throat as he fucks you hard in this tiny little bathroom. Everything’s bouncing— tits, feet, your braids slapping against your bare back— your ass hanging off the edge of the cool porcelain. 

It feels good— he feels good. Like the old Bucky, the Bucky you know; the Bucky that knows you. His teeth scrape against your skin, quip nips before that lazy tongue sneaks out, licking— lapping at your collarbone. He sucks your tit into his mouth, that velvet tongue searing your skin, swishing and flicking at your tight nipple. 

Your hips are rolling, greedy, meeting his half way. Fingernails digging into his bicep and shoulder. The pull in your stomach— the pressure— makes your toes curl. You wail, high pitched, nearly crying as every push of his hips threatens to detonate the ticking bomb that is your long awaited orgasm. Your body jerks, tensing hard as Bucky buries his head in the little nook between your neck and face, whimpering all sweet in your ear. 

There’s a sharp intake of air, fills your lungs full. You freeze, stiffening up and then… and then… the coil snaps. You slam your head back on the medicine cabinet as your hips jerk hard and fast, a rush of white hot heat charging through your veins— blooming across your skin. His name falls from your lips, curses and prayers all jumbled together as you come. 

He fucks you right through it. Long, feral, crude plunges, elongating your release, stoking the flame further— _higher_. Wave after wave. Toes curling so tight they go numb. Fingernails digging, scratching so hard there’s little droplets of blood. Pussy clenching, so firm, so wet.

Bucky always sounded sweet when he came. Little moans turn loud, shaky and sugary. His hips go fluid, once jagged and haphazard as he chases the release but now long and rhythmic. The drags of his cock slowing as he spurts, milky white ribbons from an angry, red cock head. It fills you up, his cum. So stuffed that it spills back out as he gets lazy— languid.

He nuzzles into you, the sharp, short hair on his cheeks and chin cutting into your skin. Both of you are damp, skin sticking to one another as your chests heave. Hot puffs of air push his hair, grabs at your balmy flesh. You press sloppy kisses to his forehead, your lips dragging along his skin, too lazy, too fucked out, too hot and scattered to make them proper. You hold his body close, wrap your arm around his shoulders and neck as your free hand skims up and down that silver, shiny metal. 

You stop just over the little red star painted on his bicep. You cover it with your palm.

You should tell him before you lose the chance. Before all that’s left is Soldat.

_Say it._

_I love you._

_I love you._

\- - - - -

It’s Christmas time again. One more year slipping by with the blink of an eye. How The Grinch Stole Christmas plays on the tv, the compound kitchen smelling of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. There’s a tree, entirely too big for the shared living room, tucked in the corner, small white lights shimmering. 

Sam helps you with dinner, the two of you moving around each other like pros. Peter and MJ cuddle on the couch. Steve reads to the half asleep Morgan. Tony’s passed out on the love seat, his hand half shoved down his pants, mouth hanging open as Natasha and Bruce bet on who can toss the most popcorn into his mouth without waking him. 

The snow just outside starts to swirl, the tree limbs and leaves shaking and bending with a sudden, strong wind. A low hum sounds— and you’re running towards the glass doors. 

T’Challa’s personal jet lands soft on the snow covered lawn. Bucky’s barely out of the seat before you're in his arms, knocking him back a few steps, his laughter filling the cold air. 

“Miss me?”

You squeeze him tight, slamming your eyes closed as he returns your hug, “Yes.” You lean back, eyes bouncing back and forth between his, “Tell me it worked.”

He smiles slow, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, brightens up his whole face, “That Shuri’s a smart cookie. Those words are just _words_ now. It worked.”

_Say it._

_Say it._

_Say it._

“Thank you God,” you breathe, pulling him back into a hug, “I love you.”

Bucky grabs his bag from the plane and starts the walk across the lawn, towards his friends, his home, “I love you more.”


End file.
